


death waltz

by mikkal



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Assassination Attempt(s), BAMF Noctis Lucis Caelum, Blood and Injury, Father-Son Relationship, Hurt Noctis, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2019-03-10 22:17:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13510887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikkal/pseuds/mikkal
Summary: Terrorists storm a charity gala held in one of the Citadel's ballrooms. Noctis will do anything to keep his father safe, even risk his own life.(featuring: prompto and noctis waltzing together and then Regis and noctis waltzing)





	death waltz

The gala is halfway over, the sun just dipping below the horizon, before he sees Noctis excuse himself from the dignitaries and various nobles that have decided to grace the Citadel with their presence.

  
Prompto watches him weave through the crowd with a grace that he’s kind of jealous of—and he can’t help but snap a candid picture. He’s stopped here and there, once by an Accordo Ambassador—the one who he’s pretty sure wants to stop trade negotiations with Insomnia before the routes get taken over by Niflheim for good—and another by a Tenebrae refugee from a High House. Noct seems reluctant to speak to her, shuffling nervously and spending less time making small talk before he practically runs away. Ignis takes his place, smiling a smile he’s never seen before. Something soft and sad at the same time. 

  
Prompto’s curious about Noct’s destination. He himself is tucked in a corner, trying not to intrude on a world he most definitely doesn’t belong to. He figured Noct would find him at the very end, a wry and apologetic smile on his face, and they both would get shitfaced back at his apartment way too late in the night to be considered responsible.

  
So, he’s surprised when Noct turns left at one point and is somehow standing in front of Prompto with a tired look on his face and annoyance lining his mouth.

  
“Hey, buddy.” Prompto’s grin is lopsided. “You doing okay there?”

  
He makes a noise of frustration, a little bit of a sigh, a little bit of a huff, and then holds out his hand, palm up. “Dance with me?”

  
Prompto’s cheeks instantly heat up in a blazing blush. “Uh...you hate dancing?” he says somewhat feebly.

  
Noct snorts, the corner of his lips twitching up. “Yeah, maybe, but you don’t.”

  
That definitely doesn’t help the blush. “You’re also really, really...not good at dancing, dude.”

  
“Then it’s a good thing you’re wearing your boots,” Noct replies, his expression smoothing out to something less frustrated. “And not the dress shoes Iggy painstakingly picked out for you.” His eyes flicker down to Prompto’s feet then back up, an eyebrow raised.

  
Prom scowls at him. “Maybe I just wanted protection from your stomping?” he says even as he takes Noct’s hand, shoving his cheap camera in his pocket. Not even mentioning that he had hoped Noct would ask him to dance, but hadn’t really expected it actually happen. He lets himself be led to the dance floor as he continues with, “I don’t know how you can fight without tripping over your own two feet, but dancing? Nah. Nope. Too much.”

  
All of the tension lingering in Noct’s shoulders instantly fades as he laughs “Then maybe you should lead.” His hand goes to Prompto’s shoulder and he clasps their right hands together in the pose of a traditional Altissian waltz.

  
“That doesn’t fix the problem,” he argues even as his left hands rests flat, low, on the small of Noctis’ back. “You can’t follow a beat to save your life. We’ll both end up with flat toes.”

Honestly, he doesn’t even notice when he starts moving to the beat of the song. Noct instantly follows, grinning softly. They only tread on toes twice, early on, but, for the most part, they’re putting Ignis’ lessons to good use for the first time in a long time. It’s amazingly easy to lead Noct around the other couples on the floor. For a prince who was practically raised with dance lessons, he’s awfully bad at dancing in general so leading is out of the question. He spends too much time staring at his steps than making sure his partner knows where to go next.

Sure enough, even though he’s following this time around with someone who is a good dancer, his eyes keep drifting downward nervously. Prompto watches him, smiling. He’s seen Noctis pull of the most amazing maneuvers in the middle of a fight. Seeing the difference is both hilarious and a privilege.

“Who was that woman?” he asks a little bit later when they’ve swung around the dance floor a few times. Ignis is still talking to the Tenebrae noble, though they’ve moved to one of the tables scattered around. “She seems important.” The metal flowers entwined around her throat shimmer a pale blue in the light, a few shades darker than the royal sylleblossoms. 

Noctis follows his gaze, grimaces, then turns back, this time focusing on their clasped hands. His fingers tighten around Prompto’s, his knuckles paling. “She is,” he says quietly right before Prompto planned on telling him not to worry about it. Instead, he snaps his already opened mouth shut with a click. “She’s Luna’s cousin on her father’s side.”

  
“Oh. Uh.”

  
“Yeah.”

  
They fall to silence after that. Prompto pulls Noct a little closer, slowing their dance down to the point where they’re not even following the beat properly anymore. Noct sighs and smiles. It looks forced and there’s an unhappy tilt to it.

  
“It doesn’t matter,” he says. “She was one of the few people who managed to escape the Manor before the Niffs ransacked it. I’m lucky someone got away and survived.” His eyes cut to her and Ignis again before he shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter,” he repeats firmly, trying to convince himself.

  
Prompto casts around for a change of subject. He doesn’t like this unhappy version of Noct—sad and faraway, trapped in a memory from so long ago it’s been twisted into something with hazy edges. He knows Noct blames himself for a lot of things he shouldn’t, including things when he was young and too injured to even walk, and he doesn’t like it. His friend doesn’t deserve it.

  
“So,” he drags out the word. Noct glances up to meet his eyes, curious. “No crownsguard tonight?”

  
Noctis raises an eyebrow. “You’re off duty, aren’t you?” he says teasingly, like he thinks Prompto forgot about his most recent achievement. “And Ignis. And Gladio.” Gladio is lurking like a behemoth along the edges of the room, but he’s dressed like Prompto and Ignis in a suit with a nice tie and everything.

  
Prompto scoffs. “Maybe I thought it was just us. We _are_ part of a certain person’s retinue,” he points out. Noct snorts. “I just noticed all the kingsglaive uniforms earlier. Aren’t they more of a beyond-the-Wall sort of thing?” Unless someone decided to tell him the wrong information again for fun and giggles, it wouldn’t be the first time.

  
“No, yeah. Dad’s being paranoid,” he says. “Most of the crownsguards are outside the Citadel and around the city if they’re not off-duty. Glaives are here and outside the Citadel too. The Niffs have been getting braver lately, moving to gain Fort Clypeus.” His eyebrows furrow as he talks, wrinkling in the middle. Prompto doesn’t want to move either of his hands to smooth out the lines with his thumb, and he knows Noct wouldn’t really appreciate it right now. “And there have been some awful rumors spreading. He just feels better about magic guarding the gala.”

  
So much for a subject change.

  
The tensions between Niflheim and Lucis have only gotten heavier, with Insomnia literally being the last bastion of defense against Niflheim claiming the whole of Lucis. Sure there’s a few standing forts here and there, Galadhian rebels, and the Southern Isles are not taking Niflheim’s heavy hand quietly. But, Niflheim almost has it all and most people no longer have the will and hope to argue. Prompto’s seen the sad-eyed refugees stumbling through the Wall’s checkpoints, on those days when Noctis can’t sit idly and has a burning urge to _help_. (Dangerous, Iggy always says, but never stops them.)

  
Before he can pull the conversation to something like photography or Justice Monsters, Noct sighs and lets his head fall until his forehead sits comfortably on Prompto’s shoulder. Prompto presses his cheek against his hair, slowing their dancing even more until they’re all but swaying on the fringes of the dance floor.

  
“May I cut in?”

  
Noctis stiffens in his embrace. Prompto nearly says something scathing before he turns around, but luckily he turns around before the first words escapes his lips because there the King of Lucis himself stands with amusement in his expression and glittering eyes.

  
“Y-Your Majesty!” he exclaims. Noct jerks away from him, eyes blown wide in surprise. “Oh, of course. Sorry.”

  
Regis only smiles at his son’s friend. “No worries, Prompto. I just wish to speak to my son for a bit.” Prompto bows hastily, shoots a smile towards Noct, then dashes away to where Gladio is smirking and Ignis frowns delicately. The sight of Noctis’ friends makes his smile wider as he turns towards his son.

  
Noctis is looking up at him, bottom lip trapped between his teeth. Aulea use to have the same habit when they were young, the sight makes his heart ache. He holds up his hands in offer, letting Regis dictate what dance to go with. As much as he would love to dance a more Lucian dance with him, something fun and airy that’s normally only pulled out for the Winter Solstice Night of Dawn festivals, he options, instead, for the Altissian waltz he was already doing.

  
And he knows just as well as everyone else to not let his son lead.

  
He clasps their hands together, places his free hand on the middle of his back, and carefully dances them around. Noctis chuckles, cheeks flushing, but he smiles brighter than he’s seen in a long time. At least, around him. He smiles like this around his friends and a few others, but Regis has seen his son so little in the last few months he’d been worried he’d forgotten what his smile looked like.

  
Turns out, thankfully, he hasn't. It’s as radiant and awkward as he remembers. A smile he’s inherited from him.

  
The orchestra plays, without prompting, several songs in a row within the proper beat for a waltz. It takes a full song before Noctis finally breaks the silence.

  
“What did you want to talk about, dad?”

  
Regis shakes his head. “Nothing specific,” he admits. Noctis raises an eyebrow. “I haven’t seen you in quite awhile. This seems the quickest way to spend some time with you before I convince the council to clear my weekend.”

  
Noctis perks up that. “The same weekend that Ignis cleared for me?” he asks hopefully.

  
“The very same one,” Regis confirms. Noctis lets out a laugh like he can’t keep his happiness to himself. “I figured we could go fishing. Not in our usual spot, unfortunately, but fishing nonetheless.”

  
“We haven’t gone fishing in _ages_ ,” his son breathes. “Oh gods, this is amazing.” He looks years younger, his expression clearing of the stress and exhaustion Regis had been hoping to ward away for a longer time. He always wore the weight on his shoulders, making his nineteen year old son look closer to thirty than twenty.

Damn the gods, he’s supposed to have more _time_.

They dance more, the song drowned out by Noctis asking question after question about their upcoming weekend. Regis answers every single one of them, not even thinking about dismissing any of them even as they get to questions and one-sided discussions about what kind of lures to use. He likes fishing well enough, but the enthusiasm his son has for it is staggering. Noctis seems content enough to use Regis as a relatively silent sounding board for his lure planning.

  
Noctis pauses to take a breath, then falters, his eyes widening as he spots something just over Regis’ shoulder. Regis shifts, turning to look—

Then everything happens at once.

  
A noblewoman Regis doesn’t recognize is closer than expected, her hands lost in the waves of her dress skirts. As he turns around, one of her hands is coming into view with a sleek crossbow pointed straight at his back. A kingsglaive closest to them draws their weapons at the same time, shouting something. Regis tugs at the magic in his core just when the woman pulls the trigger.

  
But it’s Noctis shoving him out of the way, throwing a shield up around them. He grunts, the shield shimmering slightly, but he holds his stance.

  
The glaive warps right into the woman, throwing her to the ground kicking and screaming. She goes for the eyes with sharp nails only to be blocked by the ‘glaive’s forearm.

  
Regis sucks in a breath and presses a hand between his son’s shoulder blades, feeling him tremble and his back heave with short, sharp breaths. “You can drop the shield now, Noctis,” he murmurs. “Mage Altius has it taken care of.”

  
Screaming tells him otherwise. He looks up sharply to see a swarm of men and women appearing loaded with guns and swords. A nobleman from Insomnia herself is taken out with a brutal sword slash to the throat. His wife shrieks and goes after the attacker with a wicked looking dagger, only for her to fall as well with a cry and gurgle. A ‘glaive shoves their own weapon into the attacker’s chest.

  
“For Niflheim,” the first attacker spits. She’s glaring spitefully up at Regis, blood on her lips and a death wish in her eyes.

  
“You’re Lucian,” Noctis grits out, flinching when gunshots start up. “Why—?”

  
She grins a dark smile, her teeth stained red. “No one is Lucian anymore,” she says. “The longer Insomnia holds, the more people die. Niflheim has claimed rights to Eos, why not save some trouble and let them have it?” Altius shifts until her other forearm presses against the woman’s throat. She chokes, clawing at it. “M-Matter of time.”

  
And then she dies, right there, shuddering with her head thrown back and froth foaming from her mouth. Altius lets go of her like she’s been burned, standing with her sword in one hand and her hidden wrist blade primed to go.

  
Everything and all things turn to chaos right then and there.

  
Regis has been in a fight before. Multiple fights. From the skirmishes he got into as a young man on a road trip to front line battles when his father held the Wall and then to the numerous assassination attempts since he became king.

  
None of those matched up to this one, with his son and his friends in the very same fight.

  
He quickly loses track of them; Clarus coming up to his side with his shield and sword, Cor covering his back. Regis doesn’t bother with his armiger, he just calls upon his sword only and flashes a bit of lightning around.

  
As volatile as lightning can be, of the spells he knows thundara is the easiest to direct. He’s lucky that the kingsglaive are a sturdy bunch, his Shield and Marshal weathered by past mistakes during training. Any wayward strikes are barely a blip on their radars.

  
Regis sees fire at the corner of his eyes. He throws a shield up against a smattering of bullets, whirling around—despite his body’s protests—to take down one of the attackers. Ignis is there, not far away, with a flask of fire in his hands. He throws it, another burst of flames catching three of the men advancing with swords.

  
They scream, the leader dropping dead almost instantly, the other two frantically trying to put their clothes out. Ignis conjures up an ice flask and flash freezes them. Regis cannot wait to see him as a ‘glaive. He’s sure to be as deadly as Crowe Altius when he can use real spells instead of the prepared flasks.

  
Of battles go, this one is quick and relatively painless. He sees Gladio back to back with Ostium, Ulric warps like he was born for it, and while he cannot see Prompto, he hears the echoing of sniper shots and he knows Noctis found a way to take him out of the fray.

  
The panic comes when he realizes he can’t find Noctis.

  
Of the thirty or so assassins, or terrorists, who stormed the gala, only five remain. Yet there is still no sign of his son.  
“Cor!” he calls, keeping his eye on the group of now four being corralled into a small cluster. Someone needs to be kept alive for questions. It’ll be a difficult chore to keep one of them from killing themself. Cor materializes at his side, grim expression set. “Find my son,” he commands, keeping his voice as level as possible.

  
His knee gives out on him finally, Clarus bracing him before he can fall completely. His body aches and groans, his fingers burn with electricity, his head throbbing. Too much magic, too much moving around. Clarus presses a hand between his shoulder blades as he slides him to sit on the steps of the stage.

  
Cor watches him for a second, making sure he’s all right, before he nods. “Yes, your Majesty.” He turns heel, shouting for Gladio and Ignis to help. Prompto scrambling at the balcony is audible, but Cor snaps at him to stay where he is.

  
Regis sent Cor off, but he can’t sit here. He can’t sit here and wait for news about his son. He struggles to stand, groaning as his joints pop and his knee whines. Where’s his damn cane?

  
“Reggie,” Clarus mutters in warning even as he helps him. “Don’t push it.”

  
He waves him off. “My _son_ is missing,” he all but hisses, “after more than thirty terrorists attack a charity gala in _my_  Citadel. I want to know who was in charge of the guard roster and rotation immediately.” And Astrals save any kingsglaive’s soul who decided to turn traitor on Lucis. Beheading may have ended during the Clever’s reign, but he will have someone’s head for this if it comes to it.

  
Clarus sticks close to him as they exit the ballroom. Only one assailant is left, handcuffed, pressed down to the ground, and a gag in her mouth to keep her from biting down on a possible capsule. She’s glaring at him as they pass, blood dripping into her eyes.

  
Regis looks frantically, heart thruming in his throat, something heavy settling in his stomach. This cannot be. They could not have taken his son.

  
There’s scrambling from behind them on the stairs that lead to the balcony. Regis spins around, but Clarus is already there with his shield ready. It’s only Prompto, pale-faced, dusty, but, mercifully, injury free. He yelps, stumbling back when he sees them, eyes wide and hands up to show he’s unarmed.

  
“Have you seen Noctis?” Regis demands of him.

  
Prompto’s eyes go impossibly wider as he shakes his head. “No,” he says, voice surprisingly steady. “He warped me up to the balcony, got me a rifle, and then went back into the fray. I saw him head to the corridor, but that’s it.”

  
So that’s the direction Regis goes in. Clarus on his right, Prompto on his left if a little behind. There’s more bodies here, some gala-goers and a few more assassins. Most of the attendees are alive, huddled together as medics begin to swarm. One of them tries to see to her King, but he brushes her off.

  
They follow the trail of blood and the signs of fighting, Regis’ chest tightening with every step they take without seeing Noctis. There’s frost burn on a window, a side table is scorched from lightning. Wallpaper still smolders.

  
Blood on the tiles.

  
“Noct!” Prompto shouts, taking off at a dead sprint.

  
There’s a body of a man he doesn’t recognize laying next to his son. Dead, burned by both fire and frost. Noctis sits there, unresponsive to the shouts of his name, blood smeared behind him on the wall as if he leaned against it then slid down with no control. His chest moves just barely, shallow and sharp. Any relief he would’ve felt at the sight curdles when he sees the blood dripping on the corner of his mouth, speckled on his chin.

  
Prompto slides to a stop on his knees, hands coming up to cup Noct’s face frantically. His friend’s eyes sit half-lidded, faraway and not focusing despite the fact Prompto’s sitting right in front of him. He’s gasping frantically, breath whistling through his cracked lips. His skin is pale and clammy, pale bone-white with a flush on his cheeks. Blood stains his temple, covers his mouth and chin in little dots that multiply every time he breathes out.

  
Blowback from his spells puts soot on his hands and the cuffs of his jacket, his fingers bleeding raw from whichever of the elements he used. Prompto rests a hand on his chest and Noct groans, twitching at the touch. He snatches his hand back like he’d been burned, eyes wide. He glances down and swears loudly.

  
“What is it?” the King demands. For a moment, he sounds like a father instead of a monarch. He drops to his knees despite the pain. Noctis stirs just a little at the sound of his father’s voice. “What else is wrong?”

  
Prompto swallows thickly. “I...He—.” The words lodge in his throat and he can only gesture helplessly down.

  
A crossbow bolt sits low into Noct’s chest, surrounded by a slowly growing stain of blood. The darker black spot is already too large for comfort. If he remembers his field aid lessons well enough, the bolt is right on the edge of his lung. Judging by his breathing and the blood, it’s actually in his lung.

  
Oh, shit. _It’s in his lung_.

  
“Medic!” Lord Amicitia roars down the corridor. “Medic! Now!”

  
“Oh, Noctis.” His Majesty has never sounded so devastated. “Noctis. Noct.” Prompto shuffles out of the way so his dad can get closer, but takes Noct’s hand and never lets go. “Why would you do that?”

  
The King cups Noct’s cheek, thumbing over his cheekbone. When Prompto looks, there’s tears streaming down his king’s face. Noct leans into the touch limply, like a puppet with his strings cut. He slumps over to the side, his eyes fluttering once. He moans, expression twisting in pain.

  
Noct heaves, sharp and pained. His eyes flutter again, opening just the barest bit more, his gaze focusing. “D-Da—?” His voice fails him, cracking and faint. He tries to take a deep breath only for it to hitch and make him whimper in pain.

  
“Shh. Shh,” the king whispers, wobbly and tearful. “It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.”

  
“ _Dad_ ,” he tries again, no more than a whisper. “Are - are you -.” Fresh tears trickle down his cheeks, fresh blood bubbles from his lips.

  
“Noct,” Prompto says thickly, his heart clenching at the sight of his friend struggling and in so much pain. “You shouldn’t talk. Your lungs—.”

  
He shakes his head, more of a loll as he loses control over the muscles in his neck. His eyes are wide and child-like, unfocused but clearly trying to land solely on his father.

  
“—‘kay?” he breathes out, barely a sound.

  
The king sobs outright, clutching Noct’s free hand between both of his. “I’m fine,” he says. Noct whimpers a noise of disagreement. “Noctis, _I’m_ fine. You, however, are not.”

  
“Noctis!”

  
“Noct!”

  
Galdio and Ignis appear through the doors of the ballroom, covered in soot and blood and sweat, but they don’t seem hurt. They’re just visibly panicked. They spot the group huddled around Noct and come running. They don’t make it before the medics are swarming.

  
“Your Majesty,” someone says. “Mr. Argentum.” Prompto flinches at his name being said. Since when do they know—? “Please step aside.”

  
Lord Amicita grabs the king by the shoulders and heaves him up in a move Prompto can’t imagine replicating—except he sort of has, he’s grabbed Noctis sort of like that before. Oh Gods. The king grips his Shield’s forearm tightly, leaving a smear of a blood on his sleeve.

  
“Dad,” Gladio pleads. He sounds young like that.

  
He looks young, his face pale and eyes wide. There’s blood on his dress shirt, stained in his hair. Ignis has blood streaked down his cheek and his throat, his glasses missing and his hair ungeled, soft. They both look their age for once, not older and wiser and untroubled by ridiculous thoughts and worries.

  
Lord Amicita waves his son away almost callously, but then his expression softens as Noct is loaded up on a stretcher, the king hovering awkwardly. The medics pay their monarch no mind, just focusing on saving the crown prince.

  
“Later, Gladiolus,” Lord Amicita says softly. Galdio backs down, fists clenched at his side.

  
Ignis appears at Prompto’s side, his hand warm when he places it on the small of his back. “Are you all right?” he asks gently.  
Prompto opens his mouth to answer and all he manages is a rasping croak. His hands shake, he feels adrift despite the hand on his back anchoring him. All he can do, in the end, is shake his head.

  
And then Noct jerks on the stretcher, choking on air—blood. Choking on blood. He coughs hard once, blood spraying out and speckling the faces of the medics. One of them flinches, closing his eyes to avoid the spray. They’re wearing masks over their mouths and noses, the red on white painting a morbid picture.

  
When he tries to breath in he _can’t_. There’s a sucking noise coming from his chest through his throat and out his mouth. His eyes widen in panic. All he can do is cough and wheeze, like he’s drowning on land. His lung filling, full, with blood.

  
Prompto claps his hands over his mouth, muffling the sob that wants to break free. The sickly sent of copper floods his senses. He jerks his hands away, staring with wide-eyed horror at the blood smeared over his skin. Noct’s blood. Over his hands. Up his wrists. Under his nails. Smeared on his face around his mouth.

  
His stomach heaves and he gags. Ignis’ presses his other hand against his chest, bracketing him on either side. He doesn’t bother murmuring any words of comfort, not when he can see Noct struggle to breathe right in front of him, getting farther away as the medics rush to the Citadel hospital.

  
The king stands there frozen, expression pained, looking like a statue carved out of fine marble. Lord Amicita places a hand on his shoulder and his Majesty jerks in surprise, closing his eyes like he’s in pain. And then he’s running as fast as he can, limping horribly, after the stretcher.

  
Leaving Prompto, Ignis, and Gladio behind, surrounded by magic damage and the slow growing wails of grief and terror.

* * *

Noctis doesn’t even think. He doesn’t give himself time to second guess anything. He sees the crossbow. He sees Crowe start to warp. He sees how the ‘glaive will be too late because the trigger is being pulled and a bolt is headed straight towards his dad’s undefended back.

  
He shoves him out of the way. He shoves his dad to the side, pushing himself in front, and sweeps his arm up with a shield spell falling from his lips. The magic glows blue with flickers of purple, growing from his skin out like frost on a window.

  
He’s too slow.

  
The bolt misses the shield just by a few centimeters. Straight and true, it buries itself in Noct’s chest and it feels like fire burning through his insides. He gasps and grunts, but refuses to fall. Refuses to leave his father vulnerable to the fray.

  
His dad is one of the most powerful magic users in the world. He doesn’t need his son, little Noctis, protecting him. But, still, he doesn’t back down. Not even when his father’s warm hand presses against his shoulders and he whispers that it’s okay to pull the shield down. He wants to fall into that warmth, wants the pain to go away and he knows his dad can do that.

  
But he doesn’t.

  
Not even when the pain catches in his chest and wheezes through his lips. Not even as the shield starts to falter at the edges.  
He will not leave his father without a shield.

  
Gunshots start at the entrance to the ballroom and his vision blurs. He hears Ignis shouting something to Gladio. Libertus sounds angry, annoyed. He needs to find Prompto. He’s never been in a fight like this.

  
Clarus appears, just when Noctis begins to falter just a little too much. Noct sighs in relief, grimacing when it catches again and burns through his chest. He presses a hand to the middle of his chest, the bolt shifting towards the bottom. He has to ignore it. He has to help the people.

  
His dad has a shield now. A better one. Clarus stands with the Amicita shield on one arm and his sword in the other. Cor fights his way to them, expression stoic and grim.

  
Noct takes that chance. He calls on his daggers from the armory. He won’t be able to handle a sword. Already the small blades pull and tug at his muscles, weak from his already thinning air. He throws one dagger, hissing when the bolt shifts again. His skin feels warm and wet, but he doesn’t look under the suit jacket to see the damage.

  
Prompto yelps when Noct appears next to him in a blue haze and a stumble. His hair is already in disarray, his tie undone, and somehow he’s got dirt on his forehead, but he’s holding his crownsguard issued handgun in a steady two hand grip. With Noctis watching, he yanks the gun up, barely aims, and gets two shots off. There’s a resulting two grunts of pain that has Noctis grinning with pride and not a little smugness.

  
“What in Shiva’s name is going on?” Prompto gasps out. He shifts until he’s partly in front of Noctis, gun cocked and ready. Noct has to smother the widening of his smile that comes from being protected by the guy everyone else had doubts about. Obviously Prompto takes his job of being a part of Noctis’ retinue seriously.

  
“I dunno,” Noctis forces out. His breathing is coming in short now, his chest barely moving in an attempt to minimize the shifting of the crossbow bolt. He prays to the Astrals Prompto doesn’t notice. He can’t have everyone worrying about him when there’s civilians and untrained, unarmed gala attendees in the room. “But I want you in the balcony.”

  
“What? I don’t have a gun for that kind of range,” Prompto argues. He one-shot-one-kills another attacker. Noctis makes note to watch for the fallout from this. He knows his friend’s never killed anyone before, he’s never even shot real bullets at a real person before today.

  
“I suck at dancing, you suck at close quarters,” Noctis snaps impatiently. He sucks in a breath, closing his eyes to rein himself in, and, which out looking, snaps a thunder spell. The air cracks louder than expected. He glances out to see his dad’s own lightning meet his. “Sorry,” he says to Prompto.

  
Prompto shakes his head. “Nah. No. Don’t worry about it. Tell me where to go.”

  
Instead of words, he just grabs his friend and warps them to the balcony. Prompto stumbles, pale faced, when they land on solid ground. Noct hisses between his teeth, head throbbing and chest twinging. If he thought breathing was hard before, now it feels like someone shoved a wet rag down his throat and pinched his nose. Damn, he should’ve thought a side-along would’ve made it worse.

  
With Prompto distracted by trying not to throw up, he takes the moment to investigate. The bolt is low in his chest, right where he’s pretty sure his rib cage is which means it probably hit his lung. Huh. He stares at is dazedly. It’s in his lung. He presses a hand around it, groaning at the pressure, breath hitching, and when he takes his hand away it’s covered in blood.  
Noctis wipes it against his opposite side of his jacket, leaving dark red in the lines of his palms. He flinches when Prompto grabs his shoulder.

  
“So, what’s the plan?”

  
He nods then pulls a rifle out of the armory. “Take shots,” he says. “Don’t let them get to my dad.”

  
Prompto’s lips thin out in a line, expression serious. “I can do that.” He takes the rifle carefully. “Keep them away from you and your dad.”

  
Something like panic sparks and fizzles uncomfortably. “No, just my dad. Keep my dad safe.”

  
Prompto looks unsure about that. But he doesn’t have _time_ to argue with him. The first shot was for his dad. Obviously he’s the target. His dad needs it. He needs people to stand as his shield when he fights like this, with his knee acting up, with him powering the Wall. He needs people other than a son who can’t even throw up a defensive barrier in time.

  
“Please, Prom,” he pleads.

  
His friend bites his lip then nods, taking the rifle from Noct. He whistles, low and impressed, when he finally gets a good look at it. “A ST? Since when have you had this in the armory? Damn, okay.”

  
He can’t tell him that it’s in the armory specifically for him. Cor told him about Prom’s training with various firearms and wanted to make sure he had all the weapons he could use. He’s been collecting things from the Royal Armory for Ignis and Gladio too. Maybe he’s leaning towards spoiling them, but he won’t say anything. No matter how many times Ignis calls him out on it.

  
Instead, Noctis warps away from him, back down to the ballroom floor. He appears next to Gladio, back to back as his Shield wields his broadsword. It takes this moment, with his Shield at his back, to pull a half-assed healing spell. Not even half-assed, more like quarter-assed. He feels drained and yet warmth still bubbles on his chest. Noct shakes his head like a dog after a bath and switches his daggers into a reverse grip, leaning back in his stance. He nearly falls, knee buckling. He catches himself just barely.

  
“Where’s your sword?” Gladio asks.

  
Noctis grunts, parrying something he should’ve really dodged because now his strength is sapped even more. “Thought about a change.”

  
There’s a shot in the air and someone goes down with a shout. Noct whirls around to see a woman dead behind instead of finishing her sneak attack. He glares up at the balcony anyway. Not _him_ , his _dad_.

  
The would-be-assassins, though they’re probably could be considered terrorists now, are a lot tougher than he expected. Most of them are trained in swords well enough that they’re giving Gladio and Ignis a run for their money, and there’s a force behind the swings of their swords that sends Noctis’ bones rattling.

  
He gets separated from Gladio and finds himself fighting next to Ignis now. He feels it in his core when Ignis conjures up a fire flask. His friend seems unhurt and annoyed by the interruption to the gala he helped organize.

  
“You g-good?” Noct asks, wincing at the way he stutters. He hopes it was unnoticeable.

  
Ignis sniffs. “Fantastic.” Oh, yeah, definitely annoyed.

  
Any banter he wanted to continue with—not that he could, honestly, it’s becoming scarily hard to breathe instead of just really hard—comes to screeching halt. There’s a man near the door, with a fervent look in his eye and something about the way he’s holding his sword sends a chill down Noctis’ back. There’s very few terrorists left in the ballroom and still so many ‘glaives and trained gala attendees, yet the man doesn’t seem to see them. He’s only focused on his dad fighting side-by-side with Clarus and Cor.

  
Noctis does that whole ‘not thinking’ thing again and throws his dagger in the man’s direction. Fire blooms at his back when Ignis finally tosses his flask, but Noct is already mid-warp, completing it by crashing into the man with his whole weight.

  
The man swears violently. Noct holds back a scream of pain. A foot connects with his temple, throwing him to the side. He’s on the ground as the man scrambles to his feet, sword ready to cleave Noct in two. Then he hesitates.

  
“Well, well, well. I didn’t expect to run into the precious princeling.”

  
Noctis glares at him, one eye closed against the blood dripping freely down his temple. The man smirks.

  
“I thought your little crownsguard would’ve whisked you away once the fighting started.” He points the tip of his sword towards Noct’s face. “I’d planned on just offing the king, but two for one works just as well.”

  
“Stay away from him,” Noct tries to growl, dismayed when it comes out more of a gasp.

  
The man laughs with arrogant cruelty. “Careful with what you say, prince. I might just leave you alive ‘til last so you can watch your old dear dad croak.”

  
Noct snarls and lunges forward, his daggers slashing out. He ignores the screaming of his chest, the way his breathing feels more wet than not. Block. Parry. Dodge. He trips over his own feet, pain flares on his calf from a sword point catches his leg and rips through his dress pants.

  
With no finesse he shoves and shoves at the man until they’re stumbling into the corridor outside the ballroom. Space. He needs to make space between the man and his dad. Other than the first person—the woman who killed herself—no one else has gone directly for this dad. Except this man. The rest had to be a distraction. Keep the ‘glaives busy and kill the ‘guards.

That has to be it.

  
So this man he fights.

  
The corridor has more gala attendees in it. Either those who ran out of the ballroom or the ones who has stepped out for some air. And even more terrorists facing ‘glaives. He pauses at the sight, eyes widening. There’s spell damage on curtains and wallpaper. A window shattered into a million diamonds.

  
“You godsdamn Caelums,” the man hisses, suddenly in Noct’s face. He struggles against the swords, his daggers crossed over in a block. “You just sit on your thrones, pretending to protect people with that stupid Wall. When all you do it let people die and abandon them to the Niffs.”

  
Noctis grunts, then gasps. “I thought—I t-thought Niflh-heim’s called dibs on E-Eos?” He’s shoved back and he stumbles further down the corridor, away from the main chaos. The man follows and shoves him again and again, laughing when Noct can’t find his footing. “Why-Why—?”

  
“‘Why. Why?’” he mocks, laughing. “I thought you were suppose to be more of a challenge than this.” He forces Noctis against the wall.

  
Noct opens his mouth to scream, but he can’t even breathe. The bolt slides through his flesh, protruding out through his front even more. His eyes widen in horror as he realizes the bolt had originally gone all the way through—even if it had been just a little bit—and now it’s been popped back through the other way. Still there. Still inside. Oh gods, the _pain_. It burns like fire on his back, through his nerves until black spots crowd the edges of his vision. His knees buckle, slamming him even harder against the wall.

  
The man steps back in surprise, his eyes just as wide. They both stare at each other for the longest time, until the man’s eyes drift towards Noctis’ chest. Then his lips twist into another damnable smirk.

  
“Ah, that explains so much. You’re _hurt_ ,” he breathes in delight. “Oh. This is just too good.” He lashes out, kicking his heel sharp on the inner part of Noct’s knee. He cries out in pain, crumpling to the side.

  
As the man prepares for the final strike. Noctis grips from his daggers, tears prickling and streaming down his cheeks. He swears under his breath. And then his hand clasps around the hilt. He throws it—tosses it, really—and follows it into a warp. It clatters down the corridor, he nearly goes skipping with it.

  
He ends up only a few feet away from the man, curled up like he’d been kicked in the stomach. Noctis throws lightning desperately, not aiming at all, and sets the curtains aflame without ever making it even close to the man. His hand tingles and burns, sparks on his fingertips. Crap. Shit. He’s hitting stasis. _Not now, please!_

  
Noct swears again, barely making a sound around the words. The man laughs and laughs, stalking forward slowly like the villain from a horror movie. Noct throws ice next, praying to the Astrals that it hits. The tall window showing off the night horizon over the city fogs translucent, frost crawling over the glass quickly.

  
The man grabs him by the collar roughly, yanking him up until they’re face to face. His eyes glitter in excitement and triumph, the corners of his lips curling. Noctis can’t even fight. His fingers scrabble useless against his grip, his legs barely holding him up, his head too heavy to lift.

  
“Le—,” he whimpers. A pathetic gasping thing. _Let go. Let go. Let. Me. Go._

  
Light bursts between them. A violet so bright it burns white. Smoke and the smell of ice surround them. Force pushes them apart, Noct against the wall with a sharp sound as all the air blasts out of his lungs. It isn’t much to be begin with. He chokes and coughs, legs giving out and he slides down to the floor.

  
The man drops like a rock, writhing as fire and ice smothers him. Noctis watches him with half-lidded eyes, not completely taking it in, but knowing, though, the man before him was dying slowly and painfully.

  
He doesn’t have the heart (or the energy) to make it quicker.

  
Noctis sighs against the pain and coughs, wetness dripping on his chin. He raises a shaky hand towards his face, fingers smearing against his skin. They come back covered in blood. Black soot from a blow back of the lightning spell mixing with the red. His chest crackles with every struggled breath he takes. The black that had been at the edges of his vision grows bigger until his vision is obscured by it.

  
He can’t hold on. He knows it.

  
But his dad—is his dad….is he okay? Did he—?

  
“ _Noct_!”

  
He doesn’t move. He doesn’t have the energy. Even as hands touch his face and blonde enters his vision. Prompto. And he hears voices, senses people closing in around him. Someone crouches nearer with Prompto. And he hears it.

  
“ _What is it? What else is wrong_?”

  
_Dad_? That’s his dad. Noct tries to move. His dad. He sounds unhurt. But—But he has to make sure.

  
It’s just _so. hard._

* * *

Noctis’ hand is cold in his. Regis presses his lips against his son’s too pale fingers and prays to Bahamut. He knows the Astral isn’t going to answer. He’d prayed when he was young. He’d prayed when his own father was dying. He’d pray when Aulea had first gotten sick, then again when her health declined even more, and then _again_ when she held Noctis for the last time.

He’d prayed when Bahamut announced Noctis as the Chosen King. And then cried when he received no reply. He’d prayed when that daemon attacked and nearly killed his boy.

  
They had to inflate his lung, in the end. The cross bolt inside caused blood to flood his lung, but pulling it out caused it to collapse. He will never forget the way his son arched on the metal table, blood spraying from his lips as he choked.

  
That was two days ago.

  
And now he lays, pale as death, breathing shallow as a grave. He fogs the oxygen mask fitted over his mouth and nose, his eyes twitch under his lids, lashes fluttering. His chest is wrapped in stark white bandages, his fingers just as wrapped. They can’t use an herb potion to heal him, the magic is not enough, and Regis is still too drained to create a potion off his own magic. Two godsdamn days and he’s still not strong enough for his son.

  
“Regis, you need to sleep.” Clarus’ hand is warm on his shoulder.

  
He shakes his head. “I need him to wake up first.” He shifts to press his forehead against their clasped hands, Noct’s limp grip making his chest tight. “I can’t— _Clarus_.”

  
Clarus kneels down next to him, eyes soft but imploring. “He wouldn’t want you to push yourself to the point of collapse,” he reasons. “He saved you. He won’t want to see you fall.”

  
Regis sobs. Freezing in shock at the sound. Tears trickle down his cheeks into his beard. Then he sobs again, the force of it cracking through his chest. He doesn’t let go of Noctis’ hand as Clarus wraps an arm around his shoulders.

  
“He saved me,” he manages to force out eventually. “I’m suppose to protect _him_. A foot difference and the bolt could have gone through his _heart_. I thought I would have to go through this fear only once.” When his son was eight and changed so irrevocably that Regis felt like nothing was going to be the same again. “And now. He almost died for me.”

  
“Almost,” Clarus repeated. “Almost being the keyword, Reggie. He’s going to get better, you know this.”

  
And he does. He does know this. His son is strong and a fighter. The doctors assure him that he is well on his way to recovery.  
But it’s just so. hard to see him like this.

  
Regis stays alone with his son for another day. The room is invaded only by nurses and doctors, switching out IV lines and changing bandages. His fingers heal the fastest thanks to the Crystal, but it struggles with the cross bolt injury. There’s just too much going on at once in his chest.

  
It’s towards the end of that third day that the doctors finally let more than just the King of their country and his Shield into the hospital room.

  
Ignis comes in quietly, looking more disheveled than Regis has seen in a long time. He’s dressed down for once, a thick sweater and clean jeans, and his hair is no longer styled in the updo he chose to start doing last year. It’s the same for Gladio, a sweat shirt and ratty jeans, hair in a loose bun. He’s pulling Prompto in by the arm. The younger man looking nervous. Regis blinks at the sight of him wearing thick-rimmed glasses, dressed also in a sweater-jeans combination.

  
“Your Majesty,” Ignis says softly. All three of them place their fists over their chests and bow. Prompto just a few beats behind. “We wanted to see how Noctis was doing. The doctors told us nothing.”

  
Regis smiles gently. Charmed, once again, by his son’s friends. “He is getting better.” Even with the appearance of others, he keeps his hands wrapped with Noctis’. “The doctors say he’s to wake in the next few days.”

  
“You mean he hasn’t woken up at all?” Prompto asks quietly, eyes flickering from his friend on the bed back to Regis. “That’s not a good sign.”

  
“Normally no.” Regis sighs. “With his connection to the Crystal, it is much different. The magic is keeping him in stasis in an attempt to felicitate healing.” He looks at all three of them. “You know the different potions?” He gets three confident nods. Along with two of them growing up within the privilege of the Royal family, Crownsguard training spends weeks on magic they can even use. “We cannot use those. The herb potions from the Havens will not be enough and, unfortunately, the battle drained me of what magic I don’t use for the Wall. We have to rely on the Crystal as a wild card.”

  
“Wild card?” Gladio asks, crossing his arms and frowning deeply.

  
“Sometimes the Crystal focuses on old injuries too much,” Regis explains as Ignis and Prompto take seats on the other side of Noctis’ bed. “And deems the recent injuries as low priority.”

  
“How inefficient,” Ignis says so quietly and so bitterly, Regis is sure he wasn’t actually supposed to hear it.

  
Prompto reaches out, hesitates, then brushes his fingertips oh-so-carefully against Noctis’ temple, pushing his long fringe from his closed eyes.

  
Regis watches the flush on his cheek appear and the way his gaze glances up at his King like he expects to be reprimanded for touching his best friend. When Regis says nothing, just continues to watch them interact, he becomes braver. He curls his fingers against Noct’s ear, thumb pressed against the rim, wrist resting on pillow, dark hair tangled gently in his grip like he’s afraid Noctis will get up right then and there and run away forever.

  
He knows Ignis and Gladio love him just as much, just more reserved in their touch after growing up the way they did. He can’t help but fall a little more in love with the three people that have woven themselves into his son’s life like they’ve always been there and always will be.

  
When he asked for brothers for Noct, for people who would stand by his side, he never expected the world to answer tenfold.

  
(Maybe someone did answer one of his prayers after all.)

  
They sit there in silence for a long while. The tension of being in the same room as their King slowly fading away until it feels like an ordinary day with ordinary people. Galdio’s bought a book that he’s been reading the same page of for the last half hour. Ignis looks like he’s been carved from marble, something fragile and hopeful and careful devastation in his expression. Prompto’s propped his head in his free hand, elbow on the table, and he keeps dozing off, jerking awake like a puppy.

  
Regis traces old symbols on Noctis’ hand, up on his bare arm. They used to be symbols of healing and strength, of good-will and future fortune. Old Lucian with a bleeding of Solheim lettering. Magic that he no longer can use and magic he could never really compare different. There’s no power in the runes he writes, but there’s still a little hope that it will spark something. Anything.

  
When Noctis groans and shifts once he traces that final rune on his shoulder, he thinks his mind is playing tricks on him. But then he groans again and Prompto gasps, jerking back. Ignis does the opposite, he lunges forward to hover awkwardly. Gladio snaps his book shut instantly, tossing it onto an extra chair.

  
Regis stands too quickly for his knee, but ignores to it focus on his son. Noctis’ eyelashes flutter, his expression twisting in pain despite the medication he’s on.

  
“Noctis?” he whispers, grabbing his hand tight. “Noctis, can you hear me?”

  
After a struggle, those blue eyes open at last. They’re unfocused and slightly glassy, his brows furrowing in confusion as they flick around at all the faces around him. They land on Regis, his eyes clearing a little as they widen. His lips move and though no sound comes out, they very clearly say ‘Dad.’

  
His own eyes burn with relieved tears. “There we go,” he says, voice wobbly. “You’re okay, Noct.” He brushes his free hand through his dark hair. Noct tries to say something again, lips barely moving this time. The mask fogs up even more. “No, no. Shh. Save your strength. You still have much healing to do.”

  
Noct shakes his head. He reaches up to his mask with a trembling hand that Ignis grabs and brings down to his side, then doesn’t let go. His head rolls on the pillow so he can see his chamberlain more clearly. His eyes drifting down from his face to his arms, slowly moving to Gladio, then to Prompto, his gaze eye coming clearer and clearer.

  
He squeezes Ignis’ fingers, a question in his eyes, and manages to shake him off. He moves faster than expected, slipping his mask off and taking short, gasping breaths. It takes him a moment to get enough of a breath to speak and when he finally does, his voice is low and no more than a whisper.

  
“ _Are you okay_?” he asks as if he weren’t the one who had a bolt through his chest a mere few days ago. As if he hadn’t sent himself right into stasis trying to still fight. As if Regis doesn’t know he practically ordered Prompto to defend his back instead of Noct’s own.

  
Regis’ chest cracks on a sob. He presses their joined hands against his cheek and smiles at this foolish boy. His foolish, brave son. “I’m fine,” he says. “I’m absolutely fine. You saved me, Noctis. You did such a fantastic job.”

  
Noctis’ too pale lips twist into a blinding smile, tears welling up in his eyes that he has no control over when the spill down his temple to pool in his ears. “I’m glad,” he wheezes. Gladio grips his ankle, causing him to look towards his Shield. “S-Sorry,” he says, barely sounding even partially apologetic. “He—He’s more im-important.”

  
The stony silence that follows that stuttered proclamation changes nothing in Noctis’ set and determined expression, daring anyone to contradict him. Gladiolus wants to, Regis can see it in the tick in his jaw as he clenches his teeth and the way his eyes narrow in challenge. Ignis sighs, resigned to his friend‘s opinion, though it looks like it pains him to sit back in his chair, hand settling on the bed close to Noct’s side. Prompto looks away, expression drenched in shame—perhaps for following Noctis’ order to protect the King, maybe because he already knew how Noctis felt about himself.

  
“Noct,” Regis chokes out. Why didn’t he see this before? (When would you have had an opportunity to see it? A little voice in the back of his mind sneers. When do you ever make time for your son until it’s too late?) “Noctis. That is— _Noctis_ —.”

  
“It’s the truth,” Noctis breathes. He closes his eyes, shoulders sagging. He winces when it tugs at his chest, and he opens his eyes again “You’re a better fighter. A better mage.” There’s barely a sound to his words now, Regis has to lean in close. Close enough he can see a faint ring of purple around his son’s pupils. The faint shimmering magic of the Crystal trying to work. “You’re holding the W-Wall.”

  
Regis pets his hair as his voice fades then fails him. Oh, Astrals, what have you done to his boy—this man who thinks himself unworthy and a waste. Noctis’ chest heaves as he struggles to catch his breath. Prompto carefully and solemnly quiet, reaches to pull his mask back over his mouth, hand drifting to rest on his shoulder. Noct sucks in the air greedily, his face paling bone-white.

  
“I don’t know,” Regis starts out slowly. Noctis glances away from him, but Regis puts his fingers to his son’s cheek gently and turns his face until they’re eye-to-eye. “I don’t know,” he says again, “what happened to make you think like this. I am so sorry, Noctis, for my contribution.” Noctis shakes his head almost frantically, Regis puts a hand up to stop him. “I am no more important than you. I am King, yes, but you are the future of this kingdom.” _The future of Eos_ , goes unsaid, for his own selfish sake. “I know nothing I say right now will help you believe this. But trust that I will spend the rest of my days to convince you of how important you are.”

  
Noctis closes his eyes once again, leaning into his father’s touch. “‘m sorry,” he mumbles. His breathing hitches as he lets out a sob, sharp and painful. “‘m glad you’re ‘kay,” he says.

  
Regis presses his forehead against his son’s clammy one, eyes closed in relief and sorry. “I’m glad you’re going to be okay,” he says softly. He kisses his forehead and pulls away slowly. “You’re the light of my life, Noctis. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  
Noctis breathes slowly, face relaxing in sleep no matter how uncomfortable he must be. Regis can’t even be sure he heard his last words. He pinches the bridge of his nose, falling back into his seat.

  
“Your Majesty,” Gladio says with a low voice. “We can leave.”

  
He shakes his head, waving a hand dismissively. “No, no. Stay.” His own voice is rough. Yet, he feels no embarrassment for such an emotional display in front of these men. “Noctis would want you to. And I might be important in his life, but you three are right on the same level as me.” He grins when Prompto makes a despairing noise in the back of his throat. “I am forever thankful he has you by his side.”

  
Gladio looks him straight in the eyes, something unreadable in his expression. “Even when we’ve failed him?”

  
“You mean, failed to Shield him?” Regis clarifies with a raised eyebrow. He takes no satisfaction at the young man’s flinch. “Gladiolus, you need to talk to your father more often about what is called for from a Shield.”

  
“I have.” Oh gods, he sounds so guilty. Do they all feel this way?

  
A glance at Ignis and Prompto tells him, yes. They do.

  
Regis sits back further in his chair, practically slouching. Completely unbecoming for a King, but he doesn’t have Clarus here to bug him about it.

  
“The amount of trouble I got into in my younger years could fill an entire bookcase in the Citadel library,” he says. The boys perk up at that, looking skeptical. “And most of the time Clarus couldn’t help me. He felt so much guilt about it as well,” he muses fondly. “Despite the fact that I was stubborn and reckless. I didn’t think I needed my Shield half the time, and most of that half it turned out I did. Cor was not happy about that.” Cid just laughed his ass off when the dust had been cleared.

  
Ignis adjusts his glasses. “Your Majesty, you’re saying His Highness will get hurt no matter what we do?”

  
Regis nods. “Not something you would like to hear, I know. But it is a fact of life. You’re not meant to lead him or push him, but guide him at his side. That occasionally means wrapping his wounds or yanking him from the edge.”

  
He eyes them all, one-by-one, expression resolute. They straighten when they realize they’re not in the room with just Regis, a worried dad with an injured son. No, they’re in the presence of their King, the most powerful mage on Eos.

  
“Have faith,” he says softly. “In yourselves. And in him. Push forward through the trials destiny throws before you and know you will get through them. Together.”

  
He brushes his hand through his son’s hair, watching his chest move with every breath, steady in the knowledge that he’s going to be all right. That they’re all going to be all right.

  
For now.

**Author's Note:**

> The magic discrepancies between Kingsglaive and the game bothers me. And the lack of Solheim lore annoys me. And the potions irritate me.
> 
> *the havens are magical. The plants that grow in those havens are inherently magical (and the animals that eat those plants have some magical qualities.) So there's two types of potions. The ones noctis can make out of energy drinks, which are automatically more powerful. And the ones that anyone can make out of herbs, which are used for quick fixes.
> 
> I just...it seemed like the perfect time to world-build 
> 
> Also, based Noctis' injury off pneumonia. But then my mom said his lungs would actually collapse. So please do not take what you've read as medically accurate. It was all for the drama and angst.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed reading this! (Took way too long to write tbh)


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